Gifts
by spiderfire
Summary: Something ancient, something loathsome, something unspeakable resides in the darkest parts of the Bagne de Toulon and it feeds on the misery it finds there. Once in a while, it finds a suitable host. ***This is a Lovecraft inspired horror story. However, it is not close enough to the Lovecraft mythos to really be considered a crossover. For Valvert Exchange Round 3 - Psi-Neko


"It is with profound regret that I must recommend that the Bagne de Toulon be closed. I understand that the labor provided to the Navy is invaluable and we struggle to maintain our hold on the seas after the damage the National Convention did to its proud tradition. However, something unwholesome has come to reside within the bagne's boundaries and the health of the guards and civilians who work here are placed in peril."

The above excerpt is from an unsent letter dated 29 Frimaire An VII found among Commander François Colbert's papers after his tragic death on the following night. (December 21, 1798)

* * *

**Summer, 1817**

"Hey, kid. Here it is. Welcome home."

The young man who had been convicted under the name Pierre Legrand, although the court acknowledged that that was almost certainly not his Christian name, looked at the space in front of him. It was not a bed. It was a shelf for storing men. There was a continuous plank that ran the length of the room, marked off every half meter or so with a thin rail to delineate one man's space from the next. His old bed in his carnival wagon had been more spacious and, with its sack of hay, certainly more comfortable. And private.

On its right side was his chain mate's space and on its left was a wall. He supposed he was lucky to be at the end of the row, without a man on either side of him, but at the moment the tiny space looked claustrophobic. For once, he was grateful that he was not a bigger man.

There was a long, narrow shelf that ran along the far end of the bed. The section above Pierre's bed was empty, but looking down the row, past the countless places where men slept, he could see that other prisoners had all manner of small items stored on there. A bowl, cup and spoon seemed common enough, but also trinkets and bits of this and that. On the floor, at the foot of the beds, were filthy chamber pots.

He tried to imagine what it would be like at night, when the room was full and hundreds of men slept side by side, lined up like books. In a moment of panic, he realized that for the rest of his life, every time he had to take a shit, he would do it surrounded by men, packed in close enough that he could reach out and touch them.

His head spun and he sat down heavily on the edge of the plank that would be his bed.

That space, along with the garish prison uniform on his back, were all he had left in the world. He automatically raised his hand to his head to run his fingers through his curly brown hair. For years, he had worn his hair in a shaggy mop. Together with his freckles and dimpled smile, the hair made him look boyish, he was told, and he greatly enjoyed the sort of company that look bought him. Instead of finding curls, his hand brushed against his prickly newly shaved scalp and the woolen hat that was a part of the convict's uniform. With a sigh he pulled the green cap, the mark of the lifer, from his head and looked up at the man he was chained to.

"It's lovely," he said.

The man laughed, a short bark of a laugh and sat down beside him, tossing his own green cap on the plank. Chenildieu, he had said his name was. Short, wiry bordering on gaunt, his cropped hair had gone grey and his face was deeply lined with bitterness. "That's the spirit, kid. My last partner was dumb as a rock. Sarcasm just slid off him."

Pierre smiled nervously. "So, what do we do now?"

"Do? Nothing. In a bit the work crews will be back. Then they feed us and lock us down." He shrugged. "Tomorrow…who knows. You don't do jack till they tell you, and then you do what you're told and nothing more."

Pierre slid back on the bed and pulled his chained leg up so he could look at his ankle. He rubbed it ruefully. "How long…"

"Before it stops hurting?"

Pierre nodded.

"The ankle itself? A few months, I guess. Keep that cloth under the shackle. It will help with the rubbing, though those bones that stick out on the sides are going to get bruised up. As for the rest of your leg…" he shrugged. "Maybe a year? Maybe less. You are young. You get used to it."

Pierre blanched but said nothing, stoically pulling his pant leg down.

"They brand you?" Chenildieu asked, absently scratching his wrist. His arm was splotchy, like he had gotten into nettles.

"Yeah. T. P."

Chenildieu laughed again, without mirth. "At least they got that right. The idiot who branded me got the letters in the wrong order."

Pierre looked at him, uncertain of what to say, but Chenildieu continued.

"All that matters is the damned P. The T is ordinary enough: travail, torment. But the P? Perpetuity." He was quiet for a moment, staring into the distance. Without turning his eyes back to Pierre he asked quietly, "Is it healed?"

Pierre nodded again. "My exhibition was months ago, in Calais."

Surprised, Chenildieu focused back on Pierre. "Calais! And they sent you here? Brest and Rochefort are so much closer."

"Just luck of the draw, I guess. I've always wanted to see the Mediterranean."

Just then, the door to the salle banged open and pairs of men started filing in. The room suddenly got much louder as the air filled with the clank of their chains and their gruff complaints. A wall of stench hit him as the putrid odor of the chamber pots mixed with smell of hundreds of sweaty, unwashed bodies. Suddenly, he was dizzy as the sea of red and yellow, the uniforms of the hundreds of prisoners, spun before his eyes. He felt nauseous.

The planks next to and across from them started to fill in.

"Hey, Je-nie-Dieu," said an incredibly ugly, large, red-capped convict from across the walkway. "They gave you another one!"

"God, you'd think they could marry Je-nie-Dieu to someone with some meat on his bones. What good are those two sticks going to be together?"

"Look at that! He's as good as a girl!"

"These guys are all brutes. Ignore them. I will take care of you, kid!"

"After me!" replied another.

"Better get to him before Je-nie-Dieu does. How long do you think this one will last?"

Chenildieu growled, "Give the kid a break!"

"What is this, your third kid in two years?"

"Fourth!" cried another. "Remember, there was that quiet one who died in his first week."

"That guy was weak anyway. It's a wonder the chain from Bicêtre did not kill him."

"That is enough!" Chenildieu cried.

"Je-nie-Dieu is pining for Jean. Jeannot-le-cric. They'll all die, 'til he gets his man back."

They roared with laughter.

To Pierre, the laughter sounded strained, bordering on hysterical.

"With Jean's luck, 'tis a wonder he is not back here."

"With Jean's luck, he is probably in Rochefort."

Again, they laughed. Pierre wondered who Jean was.

"Don't listen to them," Chenildieu said under his breath.

"Hey, kid," one of them said to Pierre.

He looked up. The ugly convict stood in front of him. He was a large, muscular man with skin that had been darkened by the sun to a deep reddish brown. His face was grotesque, with a crooked nose, large blotches of purplish skin and an open sore under his right eye. "What's your name?" He was easily twice Pierre's weight and at least ten years older.

It was an old trick, one that had gotten him out of tight places in the past, and he employed it without thinking. "Who's asking?" Pierre replied, cheekily, throwing his voice so it seemed to come from his left. As soon as he said it, he wished he hadn't. He wished he had answered straight. His hands were shaking and he twisted them into the fabric of his pants to keep them still.

"Did you see that?" one man asked another. "His lips did not move!"

"Hey, do that again!" someone cried.

The ugly man slapped him on the shoulder. "I like this one!" he proclaimed. "Je-nie-Dieu, this one's got some life in him."

Chenildieu laughed nervously.

Outwardly friendly, the large man sat down, squeezing himself on the end of the plank between Pierre and Chenildieu. Pierre slid over, trying to make space, but he found himself trapped between this solid mass of a man and a wall of stone. His breath came rapid and shallow. In the back of his head, he heard the voice of his father, patiently coaching the panicked six-year old-boy he had once been, before he took the stage for the first time. He tried to slow his breathing.

His father's voice was drowned out by the giant sitting next to him. "Now, let's get something straight, kid. Me, I've been here eighteen years. Your partner, here," he put a large arm over Chenildieu's shoulders and Chenildieu seemed to shrink under its weight, "he's been here seven. Your green cap don't mean squat 'till you've worn it a decade." He put his other arm over Pierre's shoulder. Pierre thought that this man's arm was probably bigger than his leg. "You, you pretty little worm. You do what you're told. Got it?"

Wide-eyed, Pierre nodded.

"Aww, isn't that sweet? He's shaking like a girl."

A round of snickers came from the crowd and Pierre tightened his grip on his pants, until his fingers turned white.

"So, what's your name, kid?"

"Pierre Legrand." This time he spoke straight, with no tricks. The fact that his voice did not shake was a triumph.

The big man spoke announcing it to the room, "Pierre Legrand! Ain't that a laugh! My friends! This here is _petit_ Pierrot!"

Someone else called out, "Naw, it is Pierre Lepetit."

Pierre cringed as the room took up, "Petit Pierrot" and "Pierre Lepetit".

"What'd they get you for, little Pete?"

"Assault."

"A wisp of a thing like you?"

"I'm stronger than I look!" Pierre replied, with what bravado he could manage.

The room laughed. "I am sure you are. You got life for assault?"

"It was a copper."

"So you are dumb, as well as cheeky."

Pierre forced a smile. "I was tricked."

"He was tricked! Hear that boys?"

"We was all tricked!" cried someone from the back.

The large man turned his attention back on Pierre. "See, was that so hard, Pierrot?"

Pierre shook his head.

The man got up and patted Pierre on the cheek. "We'll get along fine, kid. Call me Le Roi."

* * *

The first few bewildering days faded into weeks. Pierre, who had never really toiled in his short life, found that moving around with the chain was hard enough. The unfamiliar weight made his leg ache and if he did not pay attention, he got his feet tangled in the length that bound him to Chenildieu. Add to it the stress of actually doing the work he was forced to do and he moved in a daze, struggling to put one foot in front of the other.

When he made a mistake, Chenildieu would correct him. It did not take him long to figure out why his partner had the nickname Je-nie-Dieu - 'I deny God'. For the first blunder he was kind enough, but if Pierre made the same wrong move a second time, Chenildieu would use language that would blister paint to set him straight. The first time Chenildieu asked him if he was paying attention or being fucked by St. Drogo, he had been confused. Things went downhill from there.

Even with that guidance, the guards and their clubs were never far away. When a guard noticed his mistake, or when fatigue slowed him down, the blow that would fall on his shoulders made him cry out. At first, he tried to count the blows as a way to occupy his mind. That discipline lasted for a week. At the end of the second week, he realized that he had forgotten to count. He did not remember the last number anyway and he gave up. By the end of a month, he had learned to endure the blows in silence.

His civilian persona was set aside. The puppeteer and carnie performer who had delighted children and adults alike with his fantastical stories and vocal tricks sank into silence. The young man who had enjoyed the traveling life, and the endless banquet of new people to charm that such a life provided, found his world restricted to the dozen filthy men who bunked near him. The light fingers which had funded his recreation had nothing left to steal. He had never thought himself a loner, but the constant press of men, the sounds of them snoring in the night, grunting under the club and always complaining when they were awake, was overwhelming.

He grew inured to the smell and his eyes stopped registering the red and yellow of the uniforms. The never-ending sound of the chains, however, still made his head hurt. Even in the depths of the night it was not quiet as men moved in their sleep. He had a dream that kept recurring. He knocked an earthenware cup off a table and it crashed to the flagstone below, shattering into pieces. He looked up at his mother to apologize, only to find the cup on the table again as he bumped it and it fell to the floor. Over and over, with no escape, this dream would carry him around.

When the day was over, he would come back to his bed and curl on his side, his nose almost touching the wall. He would hold his cap pressed over his ear, trying to block out the noise. On the good days, he fell asleep almost immediately. When it was time to eat, Chenildieu would reach over and shake him and he would sit up, but no sooner had he eaten would he lie back down. The only saving blessing was that when he lay facing the wall, his shackled leg was down and he could, for a moment, pretend he was anywhere else.

One evening when Chenildieu shook him awake, the wall had eyes.

With a stifled scream, he jerked back, scrambling to his feet. He jostled Chenildieu in the process and his chain-mate swore at him. When he looked at the wall again, it was just a wall. It was stone, darkened in places where other men's hands had touched. The two giant, black, bloodshot eyes, terrible eyes, terrifying eyes that had been looking out of the wall at him, barely a hand-span from his face, were gone. Hesitantly, he reached out and ran his fingers along the stone.

"Pierre?" Chenildieu asked.

He turned away from the wall. "It's nothing," he said. "Just a stupid dream."

Chenildieu frowned and looked at Pierre with concern, but he said nothing.

After dinner, Pierre lay back down, willing sleep to come, but the image of those horrible, creepy eyes kept coming back to him. The guards came through, locking their chains down for the night. He tried not to think of what it would be like if a fire broke out. He imagined himself and the men around them screaming and pulling futilely on the shackles as flames licked at their arms, catching their clothes on fire, while those eyes watched.

Once, a lifetime ago, he had seen a circus tent go up in flames. Scores of people had been caught inside. Some had burned alive while others had choked to death on the smoke. He had been outside the tent, fetching one of the puppets that he had been repairing in his wagon. The entire tent had gone up in seconds. The salle was stone and not oiled canvas. A fire would not be the same thing, he told himself. Even so, every night when his chain was locked to a bolt on the floor, a knot formed in his stomach as he thought of being trapped.

He rolled to his other side only to see Chenildieu watching him. "What?" he asked.

Chenildieu had something in his hands. "Here," he said.

Pierre sat up and Chenildieu gave him a little figurine. In the dim light it was hard to tell what it was. An animal of some sort, he thought. Something with four legs. It felt smooth and cool in his hand. He looked back at Chenildieu curiously. "What is it?"

"A horse."

"A horse?"

"Jean made it. He made lots of little animals in his last few years."

"Uh, thank you?"

"You're welcome."

Pierre placed the little animal on his shelf, next to his mess kit. Then he lay back down and fell asleep.

The next day he examined the little horse in the daylight. During the night, he had taken it for wood, but when he saw it in daylight, he knew it could only be stone. It was made of some whitish crystal with a touch of pink in its depths.

Pierre knew something of carving from making the faces and hands of his puppets. Looking at this creation, he marveled at Jean's skill. The musculature was lifelike and the head was beautifully executed. He knew he could not have made such a thing in wood. How was it that this Jean had made it out of stone? In here, with no access to carving tools? He shook his head in bafflement.

As he looked around, he realized that these little animals were everywhere. All kinds of animals: dogs, horses, frogs, fish, lizards and snakes. Many men had one or two on their shelves. Here and there, there was one tucked into a crevice. To have made one such creation was incredible, but Jean must have made hundreds.

"Chenildieu," he said after he examined the horse in the daylight, "Did you see Jean make this?"

"Of course."

"How did he…"

Chenildieu shook his head. "Beats the crap out of me. It was remarkable. Every day he would look for an interesting rock when we were out at work. At night, while there was still light to see, he would chip away at it with a bit of steel he used as a chisel and a stone he used as hammer. It was almost as if….as if he were peeling an orange. The outer layers of the rock would just peel off and reveal the figure beneath." Chenildieu shook his head at the memory. "He made one every night. Sometimes, when he got the chance, he would sell them in town, but mostly he just gave them away."

Gently placing the little horse back on his shelf, Pierre also shook his head. "Incredible."

* * *

One of the things Pierre found hardest was that he never knew what to expect. The bell would go off at five in the morning. Most days they'd be marched out of the salle at six, but some days it was nearly nine. Once they got to the worksite, usually there would be some task but sometimes they'd spend half the day standing around waiting for their assignment. Other times, there would be more work than they could do and by the end of the day the guards would be bearing down hard, trying to get it done.

Today was no different. There was an entire cargo hold of a ship to unload, hurry, hurry, hurry. They had been working on it all morning and they were not given their mid-day meal until it was an hour late. But after the break, instead of being brought back, they had been taken to the prison barber. Now, he stood in line, waiting for his head to be re-shaved. Pierre leaned back against the wall and looked over at his chain-mate.

"Chenildieu?" he asked.

"What?"

"What happened to your chain-mates? The ones before me?"

"They died, kid."

"How?"

"Damned if I know. The whoreson of a God that landed us here brought them home, bit faster than me."

"They just…died?"

Chenildieu shrugged. "Something like that. Georges and David, they lasted, oh… nine, ten months each? They died in their sleep. Henri died after just a week, but he was sickly when they brought him here. They never should have put him out to work."

"Oh."

Chenildieu punched him in the arm. "Buck up, kid. I'm sure you'll do better."

* * *

**Winter 1817 – 1818**

Days gave way to weeks and weeks gave way to months. Pierre learned the rhythms of the bagne and his muscles hardened under the work. When he had arrived, there had been six men from his chain assigned to the salle that he lived in. Six men out of the three hundred that bunked in this room. By Christmas, three had died. They had collapsed while working and they had been taken back to their bunks to recover, but each died in his sleep that night. Other men in the salle died as well. One was crushed in an accident with the crane and a pair died when one fell off the dock and the chain dragged them both down. Others were released. It was said that some escaped, but no one that Pierre knew succeeded or even attempted. The empty chains were soon filled with new arrivals. The unwanted attention he had gotten at the start diminished as new men arrived to torment and his boyish looks disappeared under the grime and the misery.

He slept poorly, though he never remembered the dreams. He developed a rash on his arms that would not go away. Some kind of oil, the others said. It was used on the boats and it would irritate the skin.

He learned the names of the men on his work crew and those who slept near him. Instead of retreating into his corner each night, he sat cross-legged on his bed and listened to the talk. Across the walkway, there was Le Roi, of course, and his chain-mate Jacques. Like Le Roi, Jacques was a big man, a few years older than Pierre. He was three years into a five year sentence and every night he said a quiet prayer for a girl he had left on the outside. Next to Chenildieu was Thierry and his partner, Pascal. Thierry was quiet and withdrawn. More often than not, Pierre saw him staring blankly at the wall while his hands absently twisted the buttons on his pants. As a result, Thierry's pants were missing half their buttons. His partner, Pascal, was voluble and friendly and a bit dim. Across from Thierry and Pascal and next to Le Roi and Jacques were the copper-knobs Étienne and René. Compared to the extremes around them, Étienne and René were only remarkable in that they shared fiery red hair and a pale complexion. They never developed the burnt-brown tan that most of the men did and their faces were perpetually peeling from the bright red sunburns they sported. It had been some guard's idea of a joke to pair them and their presumed degeneracy was often commented on. Even though Étienne had some dozen years in chains and René had barely one, it was months before Pierre remembered which was which.

Most nights, they complained about the guards, the food and the work, or made commentary about some fine girl someone had seen. Some nights, a savage game of dice raged. One night the conversation centered on a near miss on the dock. For weeks, they had been hauling planks and tar and nails as the _Souverain_took shape in one of the great dry docks. Today, they had stepped the mainmast, but all had not gone smoothly.

From the start, it had been a big to-do. Early in the morning, they had carried the mast from the workshop out to the dock. Then, the convicts had been lined up in silent rows behind the waiting mast as a ceremony of some sort unfolded on the deck. Pierre watched as naval officers, in their fancy coats, had filed by a hole in the deck, each dropping something small in.

"What's going on?" he had whispered to Chenildieu.

Chenildieu had replied, "It's some ridiculous naval tradition. They put coins under the mast for luck."

"Silence!" hissed a guard, bringing his stick down on Chenildieu's shoulder. Chenildieu bowed his head with a grunt.

Then the ceremony had finished and a priest had said a blessing. A shouted command had been issued by the Captain, which was repeated by the first mate, and then the bosun and then the bosun's mate, until it was taken up by the guards. A hundred prisoners had lifted the mast as one.

The mast was as long as the boat and lifting it into place was a complicated procedure with far more pulleys than Pierre had ever seen used in one task before. His crew had been manning one of the stabilizing lines, while other crews lifted the mast upright. Then, something went wrong. One of the lift ropes had snapped under the tension. The end of the rope had rebounded with tremendous force and had cut the man at the head of that line across the chest, slicing through his uniform and breaking his ribs. The mast swung around and an entire crew found themselves pinned under it. In the end, three men had been killed and half a dozen more had been taken to the hospital with broken bones and other injuries.

While eating their dinner back in the salle, Le Roi said to Chenildieu, "Sure could have used Jean-le-Cric out there today."

Chenildieu blanched. "You know what that means, don't you? Had he been here, we would have been that crew on the front."

"Yeah, but if he had been here, he would have been able to lift the mast all by himself."

The other men nearby laughed and Chenildieu shook his head.

Pierre looked around. He had heard of Jean-this and Jean-that for months now. Finally he said, "Will you tell me about Jean?"

The response was immediate.

"He was Chenildieu's first husband."

"He was incredibly strong."

"The unluckiest man ever."

"He'd never even pick up the dice."

Le Roi added, "Have you heard about the time he climbed the wall of the salle?"

Everyone groaned, but Le Roi soldiered on. "Little Pete, it was the damnedest thing. I think that was the first time I laid eyes on him. It was a Sunday afternoon and they had us out in the yard."

"You said it was a Saturday, last time," someone heckled from down the row.

"Shut up!" Le Roi told them. "Where was I? Ah." He was interrupted again, this time by his own fit of coughing. His chain-mate, Jacques, handed him a cup of water, which he took without comment. After a moment, he continued the story. "Right. Suddenly, a chatter went up, 'Look! What is he doing?' 'Where?' 'Over there, on the wall.' and there was this _gaillard_, this convict, red cap and all, climbing up the outer wall of the salle. Think about that for a moment, would you, Pierrot. What's the wall?"

"It's just smooth stone, isn't it?"

"Smooth as a baby's ass, yeah. There is nothing to hold on to. Yet, there he was, halfway up the wall, holding on to God-knows-what. He was not chained to anyone for some reason, and the _demi-chaîne_ was thrown over his shoulder. Up, up he went, hand over hand, foot over foot. Everyone just stood and stared. Even the guards, gape mouthed, just watched. When he got to the roof, he sat there and waited while the guards got a ladder and brought him down. The yard was silent. You could have heard a pebble drop as they led him away."

"Of course, everyone went and tried, but I am telling you, no one else has ever even made it off the ground."

Another man added, "And there was the time he held up a building."

"Anyone who is strong enough could have done that. Nothing but a bug could have climbed that wall," said Étienne. Only Le Roi was senior to him on the crew and Étienne never missed a chance to challenge Le Roi.

"Who else is strong enough to hold up a building? Atlas himself?" Thierry asked as he worried a button on his pants, twisting it a quarter turn left, a quarter turn right.

Pierre frowned. "He held up a building?"

"Not exactly. It was the balcony," Étienne answered.

"Of the town hall," Jacques added.

"We walk by it all the time. It's across the harbor, on our way to the stockrooms," Chenildieu said.

Pierre thought for a moment and then looked up, clearly startled. "That balcony is huge!"

Le Roi took over the story again. "This was back in my first year or two. Or maybe three. They had several crews working side by side with tradesmen as they renovated it. I was not there, but from what I heard, the scaffolding supporting the balcony, the caryatids I guess they are called, collapsed. Mr. Unlucky himself happened to be there under the balcony as it started to go and he held it up long enough for someone to get a jack and everyone else to clear out. It was incredible. I heard that Jean-le-Cric had even been on the double chain right before that."

"That's when you are locked down all the time?" Pierre asked.

"Yeah."

"For how long?"

"Years."

"Years?"

Everyone nodded.

Pierre shook his head, disbelief clear on his face. "There is no way."

"I am telling you, Pierrot, it's true. Ask anyone."

Pierre looked around. This conversation had gathered a crowd – maybe twenty men were clustered together near the end of the salle and as he looked around every one nodded. In the silence, another man, another short timer with just a couple years under the chain, spoke up. "I heard that he was the best man with a file, ever."

"Yeah, I heard that he could cut metal like butter."

Le Roi and Étienne both nodded. "Yes, that is true," Étienne said. "I watched him once. With just the edge of a coin, he cut through his chain in minutes. He grinned at me when it was done and he even handed me the coin, but I never could get it to work. "

"The problem was that Jean had the devil's own luck." Le Roi said. "He got caught doing everything. He tried to escape like a dozen times! He made it out of the harbor three times…"

"Four times," said Chenildieu quietly.

"Four times!" Le Roi corrected himself, not missing a beat. "Once he clocked the bounty hunter right in the nose when he tried to bring him in! Some guys escape and if you are willing to risk it – sure, take your chance. But Jean? He kept trying. Time and again, every time he was caught. And those were the successes. We lined up to watch him get flogged more times than I can count. Seems like every month he was caught with a file, or contraband or a filed chain or some dumb thing… He claimed that it was not his, that he did not do it, every time, but," Le Roi laughed which broke into another ragged coughing fit. Once he got himself under control again, he added, "Who are we kidding?"

"Why did he keep trying?"

Le Roi shrugged. His voice regained some of its usual strength as he went on. "Who knows? Maybe he had a girl he wanted to get back to. God knows, he had no boys in here." There was a snicker from the crowd. "He did stop, though. Was that your influence, Je-nie-Dieu?"

Chenildieu shook his head. "No, he had sworn off the stupid stuff and had taken to carving the little animals before I met him. I think it was Javert."

"Javert."

"Ugh, Javert."

"Horrible Javert."

"Creepy Javert."

"Who was Javert?" asked Pierre.

"Javert was a guard. He disappeared what…" Le Roi looked at Chenildieu.

"I think it was about five years ago. He was constantly hanging around Jean and me. It made my skin crawl. You know how it was with him? Watching. Watching Jean especially. He would stand there and watch Jean carve the animals with his eyes all crazy-like. Every now and then Jean would look up at him with a little smile and he would wink at Javert and Javert would get all pale and go storming off. Then, one day he was gone. I think that was like a year or two before Jean was released."

"Javert was uncanny," another man interrupted. "Something was going on, something was about to go down and Javert was there minutes before it happened."

"He caught me once," Pascal said. "I was just leaving the shop and I felt my skin tingling all up my back."

"Like a tiger was about to pounce," Thierry interrupted.

"A tiger?" Pascal looked at Thierry, confused.

Thierry shook his head, patient with Pascal's limitations. "Never mind. Tell your story."

"Oh. Okay." It took Pascal a moment to re-gather his thoughts. "I had a file. Thierry," he glanced at his chain-mate who nodded in encouragement, "whispered to me. 'Quick! Hand it over!' but I was not quick enough."

"Ugh," several said at once.

Pierre looked at them strangely as Pascal continued. "I was new then. I did not know. His hands. They looked normal enough."

"But they were cold," someone interrupted.

"Slimy," another added.

"I did not know that his hands were slugs. And he was very strong. He twisted me towards the wall. He knew right where I had it, but he kept searching me for good measure. Putting those hands all over me." Pascal shivered.

Thierry looked at his chain-mate with sympathy. "You had nightmares for weeks after that."

"Especially when he was on night watch."

"No one slept when he was on night watch, it wasn't just you. It was bad enough when he had your crew for the day."

"He was not like Vasques, though."

Vasques was a current guard, one who was well known for his cruelty.

"You get nightmares about Vasques because of what he does to you. You got nightmares about Javert because of what he was."

"And what was he?"

"A demon."

Pierre scoffed. "Now, you are being ridiculous."

"No, you do not know. You were not here."

There was a general sense of agreement.

In the quiet that followed, Chenildieu commented, "I, for one, was not sad to see him gone. But I think Jean missed him."

* * *

February arrived, raw and cold. It rained often, and when it was not raining, the mud froze into churned up lumps. Stumbling along behind Chenildieu, Pierre swore at the uneven ground. Their crew was quiet. Le Roi had died in the night.

It was, in the end, a mercy. For the last week Le Roi had been in great pain but he had been too proud to say anything to the guards, to get himself transferred to the hospital. Pierre had overheard a whispered conversation between Le Roi and his chain mate one night. Jacques had been urging him to report sick but Le Roi had replied that he would rather die here, among the damned _gaillards_ he knew, than die alone in the hospital. Pierre suspected that most of the crew had overheard that conversation because the next day, a tacit agreement had sprung up between them, and they all did what they could to shield Le Roi's growing weakness from the guards.

When the bell rang in the morning, he had sat up to see Jacques was already awake, sitting next to the still body of Le Roi. Pierre met his eyes and Jacques shook his head. The guards were summoned, the joining between Jacques's chain and Le Roi's was broken, a crew was assigned to carry the body away, and Jacques was left locked down when the work crews left for the day.

The day passed slowly and that night they had sat around, the absence of Le Roi's big presence leaving a palpable hole in their talk.

After a moment of silence, when no one found anything to say, Étienne said, "Have you young'uns heard about Le Roi's famous toss of dice?"

Pierre looked around, and joined the shaking heads.

Étienne chuckled. "He was always better at telling other people's stories than his own. Jacques, do you know it?"

"I heard it once. You tell it, Étienne. You were there, right?"

"Well, I was watching. I was not playing that night. You know me, I dice for peanuts. Not for money."

"So did Le Roi."

Étienne chuckled. "Not in those days. In those days, Le Roi diced for coin. He was playing with a couple guys…not like him, guys with connections. Guys with money."

Étienne paused, looking pointedly at Pascal. After a moment, Pascal noticed. "What?"

Thierry leaned over and staged whispered, "Your brother."

Pascal snorted. "He's not here, is he? Fat lot of help he is."

Étienne continued, "Well, anyway. The game was going badly for him and Le Roi was in the hole in a big way. The dice would not go his way. Throw after throw and he kept digging deeper. He was down ten francs, Twenty. People were shouting for him to get out. Thirty. The other guys were thinking that there was no way he'd dig himself out of that debt. He'd be emptying their shit buckets for years. They were about to take their winnings and walk away when he started to goad them. Why not give him one more toss. What did they have to loose? He'd double it. Sixty!"

"Le Roi sure could talk," Jacques said softly.

"One toss. He came away triple. Wiped it all out in one throw. They guys he was playing against were none to pleased."

"I heard he got the crap beaten out of him two days later."

"Sure, but it was worth it, just to see the look on those guys faces."

"I wondered about him and dice," Chenildieu said. "He never played for more than a few sous for as long as I knew him."

"I think he figured he used up a lifetime of luck in one toss."

And then it became quiet again, each lost in their own thoughts. _A lifetime of luck._ Pierre gripped his chain, feeling lost. The endless stretch of time in front of him was beyond comprehension.

In the quiet someone asked, "That's how many?"

"In the last two years? Five."

"No six. Chenildieu's three, plus Le Roi, plus the…"

"Shut up. Everyone remembers."

Pierre looked questioningly at Chenildieu and Chenildieu whispered, "A pair, they slept two up, next to Thierry and Pascal. They were…you know. They," Chenildieu paused for a long moment before he finished his sentence. "They killed each other," he finally finished. "Thierry woke up, soaked in their blood."

"Oh."

"It didn't use to be this bad."

Pierre asked Chenildieu quietly, "What do you mean?"

"You seem to be doing okay."

"What does that mean?

Chenildieu replied, "It's just been like this since Jean left. Before that, during the five years I was with him, there was not one death on this crew."

"Oh," Pierre replied.

"You've now lasted a month longer than any partner I've had since Jean."

"Oh."

* * *

**Summer 1818**

As is the way of things, time goes on. Jacques was given a new partner. A taciturn veteran who called himself Jette after his birthplace in Belgium. He did his work and said little. When he did speak, he spoke softly, in heavily accented French.

During the spring and into the summer, they were working in town, digging the foundation for some building - a hospital maybe? It was miserable, wet work. The ground was stony and muddy sea water seeped in almost as fast as they pumped it out. The pairs were rotated between manning the pumps, digging and hauling.

One day, he and Chenildieu were digging down in the hole when there was shouting from above and two of the guards suddenly went charging up the ramp. The guard that was left down in the hole with them blasted his whistle and yelled for them to line up against the wall, to get down. He stormed down the line, clobbering any man who did not comply quickly enough across the back of the knees. They knelt for nearly an hour, not daring to say a word. The cannon blasted and they knew there was an escape. Soaked through, they were marched without explanation back to the bagne.

Chenildieu and Pierre had started to walk into the salle, but a guard stopped them. "No. Not you. You wait." He pulled them aside. Pierre looked at Chenildieu, but Chenildieu shook his head. He did not know what was going on either.

Vasques came up, armed with a rifle. "These two, too?" he asked the guard at the door.

"Aye."

Vasques prodded them with the barrel of the gun. "Move!" he ordered.

They started to walk, exchanging glances, but Pierre could see that Chenildieu had no idea of what was going on either.

After a moment, Pierre spoke up. "Where are we going?"

The guard growled. "To the dungeon. Until we have time to question you."

Chenildieu let out a small cry and Pierre looked at him. He had gone as white as a sheet. "Oh God…" he whimpered.

"Silence!" the guard ordered, prodding Chenildieu roughly.

When they arrived at the dungeon, Vasques shoved the two of them in. Pierre cringed, expecting a beating, but instead, the guard shut the door with a crash. They were in complete darkness.

Pierre reached out to touch Chenildieu and he found him trembling. "What….what is going on?" he asked.

Chenildieu replied in a terrified whisper, "I do not know. Oh God, protect me."

"Why are we in here?"

"They probably think we know something."

"But we don't. Or at least I don't. Do you?"

"No, no! Of course not! Oh, Lord, watch over us, please!"

"Then why are you so scared? What happened to 'I deny God'?"

"Oh, God, I take it back, all I have said. Just don't…What Jean told me, it cannot be true."

"What?"

"Fear, Jean said. They feed on fear. Calm, we must be calm."

It was pitch black and Pierre could not see his hand in front of his face. Encased in the heavy stone walls, it was quiet. There was a drip of water, somewhere, and the sound of a mouse scurrying around. He could feel and hear Chenildieu move around at the end of the chain. He seemed to be crawling around. "What are you doing?"

"The floor seems dry," Chenildieu answered. "Jean said it was wet. Slimy even."

"What are you talking about?" Pierre demanded.

"And it is nearly high summer. It is always worst in the winter."

Pierre growled in frustration. "What is? Would you please explain yourself!"

"The deaths. They all happened in the winter! The rashes! The damned nightmares."

"What are you talking about?"

"Something that Jean told me, once."

"Well, damn you, tell me! If you are going to be scared enough to nearly piss yourself, I want to know what it is!"

Suddenly Chenildieu's mood changed. There was a dry chuckle in the blackness. "No, you don't. I certainly didn't."

"Tell me, damn you!"

When Chenildieu picked up, his voice had changed. He had, Pierre supposed, mastered whatever was scaring him because his voice sounded smooth and collected. "As you know, Jean was here nineteen years. His last five years were my first and by then, he had settled down. He was keeping his head down and carving the little animals. During the first twelve or thirteen years, though, he tried to escape more times than I know. Mostly he did not get far. The four times he got out into the city they extended his sentence. The other times, when they caught him with a filed chain or hiding in the harbor, he got flogged, or sent to the dungeon."

"Go on," Pierre urged.

"He told me about a time he was in the dungeon, once, for a month. It was winter. Cold and damp. One night Javert brought him his dinner."

"All right…"

"At the time, Javert was young. He had been a guard just a year or two. Jean was locked down in here and I guess Javert was careless. He came in with Jean's dinner and fresh water, and without warning, the door slammed shut."

"Jean shut it?"

"No, he swore not. He said that he could not even have reached the door. He said…he said…well, this is where the story gets strange. He said the…the y'noth did it."

"The what?"

"Y'noth. It was Jean's word. It gave me shivers, the way he said it. It clings in my head, even though I have tried to forget."

"Y'noth," Pierre repeated. "Wait! I know that story! I heard it at a carnival, once. I had gone to hear…well never mind that part. Another puppeteer. It is some sort of giant worm that lurks in shadows? I think that was it. It eats children."

"Javert, Jean told me, panicked."

Pierre laughed. "About made up nonsense from a child's story? You have got to be shitting me!"

Chenildieu ignored the interruptions and continued. "Javert banged on the door and called and called, but nothing happened. No one came. Jean sat on the floor near where he was anchored and watched. He said he could see. While the dungeon should have been black, as lightless as is it is now, Jean said a light came into the room."

Chenildieu seemed so earnest. Pierre decided to play along. He asked, "From where?"

"I do not know, that is just what Jean said. Then, he said, the y'noth came."

"I thought they were locked in?"

"Stop interrupting! I am telling you what Jean told me! It came and it…it came for Javert…" Chenildieu faded off.

"It came for Javert." Pierre replied, sarcasm heavy in his voice. Pierre shook his head in the dark. He knew Chenildieu could not see him, but he could not help himself. "You expect me to believe a…a monster from a child's story? A giant worm, let's see, I think it has like tentacles and too many eyes? It appeared from hell and ate Javert?"

"No," Chenildieu continued seriously. "He was not eaten. Remember, this was years before I met Jean, and I knew Javert as well. Way too well. No, Jean said it engulfed him. He said Javert fought, but it did no good."

Pierre shook his head. "Chenildieu, there has got to be a chamber pot in this hole somewhere, because you are full of crap."

Chenildieu laughed softly and there was madness in his laugh. Pierre shivered at the sound. "I told you, you did not want to hear. Should I stop?"

This story was, Pierre decided, crazy. But good entertainment. The best part was how earnest Chenildieu seemed to be, like he actually believed this nonsense. "Naw, there's nothing better to do. Go on, tell your crazy tale."

"Jean told me that when it was done, it left and the cell was dark again. He said he went over to Javert, who was crumpled in a puddle of slime the thing had left. At the end of his chain, he could just reach Javert."

"What'd he do?" Pierre asked, imagining what he might do if he found Vasques or some other guard alone, helpless, lying on the ground. Beat the living crap out of him. Steal his keys. Anything.

"Jean was not like that, Pierre. Javert was hurt. The thing had bitten him."

"He deserved it. They all do."

Chenildieu did not reply for several seconds. "If we were out there, in the daylight, I'd be the first to agree with you. But in here? No. I do not think anyone deserves this. The price that thing exacts is too high."

Pierre felt like he was on a slippery hillside, his footing was giving way. In desperation he asked, "How did Jean know all this?"

"Pierre, I do not expect you to believe this part."

"I do not believe any part."

"Have it your way. I asked Jean the same thing. He showed me something. He took off his jacket and pushed up his sleeve and held out his arm for me to look at. You know how you have that rash on your arms, and I do too? And so does just about everyone from our end of the salle? You know how that rash is worse in the winter?"

"Yeah. Some oil from the boats?"

"No," Chenildieu replied softly. "Not from the boats."

The silence that stretched between them was taunt and tense.

Pierre snickered in the silence. "You think this demon…"

"I don't know what I think. I just know what I saw. I know what Jean told me. Jean had no rash. His arms were healthy and clear. Except."

"Except?"

"He had a scar, unlike anything I have ever seen. It looked like something had bitten him. Something with a huge mouth and a million tiny teeth that had ripped at his flesh. As I looked at it he said to me, 'Chenildieu, I've spent a lot of time in the dungeon. Do you think I do not know what lives there?'"

"Right. I think that Jean was pulling your leg. I think he was in some accident before you met him, and he was just having some fun with a folktale."

"Suit yourself," Chenildieu said.

"I think you are pulling my leg now. You're just trying to scare me."

"Jean said the rashes come from the y'noth who roams the salle at night, feeding on our nightmares."

"Then why…"

"I don't know."

In the silence that followed, Pierre could hear Chenildieu's breathing, rapid and shallow. In the darkness, he imagined he could hear the breathing of something else, something immensely large. No, that was just his imagination. "Will you finish?" he asked, suddenly eager to have Chenildieu's voice fill the silence.

After a moment, Chenildieu continued. "Once Jean got out of the dungeon, he said he could see the change in Javert. Before, Javert had been hard but not cruel. He never took bribes, nor did he turn his back. When something was going down, he turned up, but often as not, he missed it – you know how it is with the guards. They miss three quarters of what goes on around here. After the dungeon, Javert was there before the scene began. Always. And, Javert got creepy then. With the slimy hands."

Pierre laughed but it sounded forced, even to him. "That's stupid."

"Fine," Chenildieu answered, "Have it your way. You never met Javert. Or Jean either. There was something off about them. Both of them. And it started here. I am telling you!"

"If you say so," he replied. And together, they sat in uncomfortable silence in the dark. Pierre found himself peering into the lightless abyss, wondering…but that it was all nonsense of course.

Eventually, the door was unlocked. They were urged, blinking into the afternoon light. "C'mon," the guard ordered. "Your turn for questioning."

* * *

It was not until late at night that they were returned to the salle to find that every member of their crew had been isolated in the dungeon and questioned. Together they pieced together what happened. Apparently, Étienne and René had taken advantage of a moment when a guard had been distracted and they had run together. No one knew if they had been recaptured or killed or if maybe they had escaped.

The next day when they were escorted out to work, they found out. Perched on the back of a cart, positioned so every man housed in the salle would walk past them on their way to work, so weighted down with chains it was unlikely they could have stood, sat Étienne and René, their red hair blazing in the morning sunlight.

"What happened?" Chenildieu called out as they filed past.

"Étienne tripped!" René answered.

"René was going the wrong way!" Étienne called out.

"Better luck next time!" Jacques said.

"Silence!" roared a guard.

Pierre's anniversary passed. A year in the chain. Watching the new men, he realized that now, he too had taken on the walk of a convict.

* * *

**Fall and Winter 1818**

The summer's heat receded and the days grew shorter. The winter offered some respite from the relentless work. The wake-up bell rang an hour later and they were back in the salle an hour earlier each evening.

With the extra time, they talked, they diced and they worked on small crafts. Pierre was no exception. He did not have his puppets, nor did he have the heart to create new ones from the scraps he could cobble together, but he was a master of voices. Once dark fell, he would sit on his bed, his back against the wall and tell stories. The end of the salle would grow quiet as men laid still, straining to hear him talk. At first, he stuck to the stories he knew best, the fairy-tales and traditional ballads that had been his lifeblood as a carnie performer but one night he tried out Le Roi's story of Jean climbing the wall of the salle. When he was done, the silence stretched for several seconds.

"Damn but that was creepy," someone said.

"It's almost as if Le Roi was telling it himself."

"Who are you kidding? Le Roi never told it that good!"

Sleep was his escape. Over the summer, he had gotten in the habit of, every night before lying down, picking up Jean's little horse and holding it in his hand for a while. He came to believe that if he did this, he would have a sound night's sleep. However, as the nights grew longer, his ritual began to fail. At first, he would just wake up exhausted, with itchy, burning arms. He thought of Chenildieu's crazy theory and wondered about the oils from the boats. The crew had not been on a boat in months. And then, one night Chenildieu shook him awake.

"Stop thrashing!" he hissed.

As the nights passed, Chenildieu sometimes woke him up two and three times. As his chain-mate lost patience with him, he went from shaking him to kicking him.

Another night, he woke when a bowl hit his head and he bolted up. "What the hell!" he growled.

"Shut up, Pierrot!" Jacques said from across the walkway. "'fore you bring the guards!"

"You were shouting in your sleep." Chenildieu growled. "Sounded like utter nonsense."

"Fuck off," Pierre replied.

As the days grew shorter, he slept less and less. Even if Chenildieu did not kick him into consciousness, at some point in the dark hours, he'd sit bolt upright, waking as he sat, with waves of terror coursing through him. More than anything, he wanted to, he needed to, get up and run. Chained down, there was nowhere to go. Instead he sat on his bed, shaking violently, straining his memory for the dreams. Once he remembered a sense of being engulfed, being held immobile, gripped by coils of velvet-covered steel. Another time, all he remembered was a mouth full of uncountable teeth, gaping open inches from his face. He'd raise his trembling hands to his head, wanting to run his fingers through the shaggy curls that were long gone. Touching the short-cropped fuzz brought him no comfort.

One night as he brought his hands down from his head, he looked at his arms. His sleeves had fallen back when he had lifted them, and the full moon shown through the window. He could see the angry, red inflamed rash on his arms. It stung and, looking at it in the moonlight, he realized it was oozing some slimy puss. Gingerly, he pulled his sleeves down and curled on his side, still shaking.

Another night, as uncontrollable shudders wracked his body, he suddenly knew he was being watched. Angrily he got to his feet, stalking the three steps the chain allowed, straining at the end of his leash, searching for who it was who was staring at him, laughing at him. Thierry rolled over and swore groggily in his sleep. Pascal kicked at him. Looking down the salle, he saw no evidence that even one of the hundreds of men were awake, besides him. Even the crazy guy who was chained halfway up the room and who sat up rocking and muttering to himself through the night was asleep. He turned to return to his bunk. In the faint traces of moonlight he saw two bloodshot eyes, eyes whose blackness made them feel like he was falling, falling into the wall, staring out at him.

* * *

"Pierre, I am worried about you."

"I'm fine, Chenildieu."

"No, you don't understand. This is what happened to my other chain-mates. The nightmares. Then they stopped eating."

"I'm not hungry."

"You said that yesterday."

"Leave me alone, Je-nie-Dieu."

"No. You have to eat!"

"Why? So I can spend the rest of my life chained to you? Digging rocks out of muddy holes? Freezing at night, broiling during the day, all while some worthless guard clobbers the daylights out of me? Is that why I should eat?"

"You don't eat, I'll report you to the guards and they will take you to the hospital and force you."

Pierre just looked at Chenildieu. "You wouldn't dare, you crazy freak. You and your stupid superstitious crap!

"Crazy? You are calling me crazy? You are the one with the screaming nightmares every night!"

Pierre growled and took a wild swing. It was not hard for Chenildieu to dodge and grab his hand. "Look at this, Pierre! Look at your arm! The bones are showing!"

Pierre used Chenildieu's grip against him and pulled them close together, pummeling him with his free hand. Chenildieu tripped under the assault and Pierre followed his chain-mate to the ground, bashing at his face.

Around them, the crew erupted. Hands grabbed at him and tore him off of Chenildieu. Pascal held him firm while he struggled ineffectively in his grasp. Jacques helped Chenildieu up. When he saw Chenildieu stand, with a bloody nose and an eye that was already swelling shut, he found that the anger was gone, as rapidly as it had come.

The shrill piercing cry of the guard's whistles blasted through the air and convicts scrambled out of their way. Pascal let go of him, stepping rapidly back as a guard brought his club in rapid succession into Pierre's stomach, the back of his knees, his kidneys, dropping him to the ground, his body exploding in pain.

* * *

For a brief moment, Pierre stood in the open door of the dungeon and he got a glimpse of the interior. A filthy room with a bucket in a corner, not even a plank for a bed, just bare stone. A large ring was fastened to the wall. A cold chill emanated from the room that would be his home for the next month. A month in the hole for fighting.

Holding him by the arm, the guard shoved him in, forcing him to the damp ground. The blacksmith followed and with a few, mighty strokes, riveted his chain to the wall. The guard set a jug on the floor. And then, Pierre was alone. The door closed with a crash and the blackness engulfed him.

Alone for the first time in years, he hugged his knees to his chest. For the last year and a half it was Chenildieu by his side. Before that, it was the chain gang from Calais, and then the months when he was held in the gang cell before, during and after his trial. He supposed the last time he had been alone had been back when he was traveling with the circus, but honestly, those were pretty close quarters and he could not remember when that would have been.

He ran his hands down his leg to his ankle and found the chain. Link by link, he examined the chain, following it back to the wall. Closing his eyes in the blackness, he concentrated, fingering the rivets, pulling uselessly against the ring.

Hopeless, he leaned back against the wall and listened to the mice scurry about. After the constant noise of the salle, it was novel to hear something so small. He envied their freedom and in that moment, he would have given anything to trade places.

He thought of Chenildieu's ridiculous tale about Jean and Javert. Nonsense, all of it.

Time in the dungeon took on a surreal quality. Alone in the darkness, he slept as much as he could. When he could not sleep, he did pushups, sit ups, anything to drain the energy from his muscles. He ate when they brought him food. Sometimes it would seem like just minutes passed from one meal to the next; other times he could have sworn they had forgotten him and left him to starve.

He must have been asleep, because he was jarred awake with the knowledge that_he was not alone. _He jerked upright and called out, "Who's there?"

His voice echoed in the empty cell.

But as his eyes adjusted, he realized it was not exactly dark anymore. The cell was filled with a loathsome, unhealthy light and the creature that was in the cell with him was clearly visible. It took him a moment to realize that the light came from creature itself. He had the impression of huge eyes, many of them, far more than there should be, shot through with red. A hundred of these eyes turned on him, eyes that he instantly recognized as having been watching him through the wall. There was a great gaping mouth, bristling with jagged teeth. He had the impression of flesh that bubbled with pustules. The pustules seemed to dome up, develop a peaked top and then erupt, bursting with a green ochre that dripped down the creature's sides. He had the impression of a vast size. Its body disappeared into the blackness, as if it had just stuck its head through a door and the rest of it was behind, waiting in the blackness.

It was hideous and terrible and fascinating, like watching the blood spurt from a fatal wound. He tried to look away and his eyes kept getting pulled back, drawn by the pulsing inevitability, his strength and will sapped by…by its…

He closed his eyes and shook his head to clear it. I am seeing things, he told himself. It is not real. It is not there.

_Yesssssss. I am here_

He opened his eyes and it was still there.

The sound that escaped Pierre's lips might have been a scream. Suddenly all of the dreams that Chenildieu had woken him from, only to be forgotten immediately, came crashing upon his awareness and he vividly remembered this creature, and its appetite.

_I have been waiting for you._

As in the dreams, the creature slid forward. More of its body appeared out of the darkness. Segments, like those of a worm, emerged one after another. He scrambled back, trying to get away, for once forgetting the chain until it snapped tight, leaving him trapped between the wall and the thing, unable to slide away. The trail of ooze it left glowed faintly green in the blackness.

It reached out for him, glistening tentacles erupting from its body.

It has been years.

One tentacle found his hand and held it fast. Another slid up his arm and a third coiled around his waist. It brought to mind the feel of the snakes that the circus's snake charmer had owned, except snakes were smooth and dry and the tentacles left slug-like secretions in their wake. A wave of panic bubbled up from deep inside him. This was not happening! He struggled in its grasp but the tentacles only wound around him tighter.

_Years since someone has denied me! Such persistence._

It must be a dream! "Chenildieu!" he shouted. "Wake me! Please!"

It was a dream, one he had had. The velvet covered bands of steel held him fast. Struggle was futile. The tip of one appendage slid his sleeve up to reveal his forearm. The rash on his arm burned as the slimy tentacle slid along the skin.

_I have a gift for you,_

With a giant toothy smile, the monster looked at him. It opened its mouth wide, poised over his arm and then it seemed to reconsider. Its mouth came up so it was level with his face. For a moment he felt dizzy, looking into that black maw that seemed to connect to the infinite horror of the dark where the unknowables lurked. An instant later, he was snapped back into the now as the mouthful of jagged teeth lunged towards his face and sunk into the skin around his right eye. A tremendous wave of pain came crashing down on him and he thought he heard it add, _but, there is a price._

The scream that came from Pierre's throat was hardly human.

* * *

Author notes:

This story would not have been possible without the help and feedback of a small army friends.  
- PrudencePaccard and Trompe-la-mort are both incredibly generous and brilliant Toulon experts. Pretty much everything I know about that prison comes from their research. I can not thank them enough. Furthermore, PrudencePaccard is writing a story about Chenildieu that has strongly influenced my perception of this character, right down to his commentary about his mis-spelled brand. That is her research that I used. :)

- PrudencePaccard and Trompe-la-mort, were not only consultants on just about everything, they also read the story multiple times at different incarnations, including a truly cludgy partial draft.

-Angualupin wrote a fascinating series of essays on tumblr about the effects of chronic stress. Much of Pierre's physiology is drawn from that.

- lucrezianoin and constancecomment beta'ed the completed first draft draft

- bluedog gave it the final spag read. Twice. (She also told me to re-write the whole thing in the first person, but I refused.)

Obviously, any mistakes that remain are mine.


End file.
